Or maybe he wasn't worried about that anymore.

It was nothing to Teddy. He'd never given a damn about the Castellanes. Didn't now. The bonuses would have been nice, but he had to remember he was in Goose Harbor for one reason and one reason only-that regal bastard, Judge Steven Stickney Monroe.

Betsy extricated herself from her conversation with the West sisters as quickly as she could, too upset and on edge to trust herself not to lash out at them because of her own volatile emotions. They didn't seem to notice. They merely asked if she'd seen Kyle since he'd left Olivia's house after he'd talked with the police.

Betsy assured them she hadn't. She'd noticed the crude bandage on Zoe's wrist and shuddered at the thought of Teddy Shelton shooting at her-the thought of him possibly almost killing Kyle, of Luke being mixed up with a thug like that. Why didn't the two Castellane men understand how much she cared about them?

Zoe said she and J. B. McGrath had been to see Luke. Betsy didn't mention their argument. She didn't know if he'd forgiven her, but she'd forgiven him. He was upset because of his ridiculous, irrational fear that his son was somehow involved in Patrick West's death.

She promised Zoe and Christina if she saw Kyle, she'd tell him they were looking for him.

As she walked back to the yacht, Betsy found herself feeling sympathy for Luke, wanting to reassure him. No one should have to endure such groundless fears and suspicions. Given his unyielding hypochondria, the anxiety behind it, she guessed that he must have seized on any inkling he had about Kyle and blew it all out of proportion, the way he did a sniffle or a spot that anyone else would dismiss.

She was almost to the boat when Kyle approached her. She grimaced at his bruises and pale, grayish skin. He'd had enough shocks to last him for a long, long time. "I saw my dad. He says he's leaving tomorrow. Alone. Just him and his crew."

"We had an argument," Betsy said.

"Betsy-" Kyle shook his head, looking pained. "Never mind."

She bit down on her lower lip. "You don't think he ever meant to take me with him, do you?"

"He's an odd duck. You knew that going in."

She smiled sadly. "And aren't you relieved you're not like him? Christina West adores you because of it. The romantic, creative artist misunderstood by his difficult, philistine father-"

"All that's true, but he'd do anything for me." Kyle's voice was quiet, surprisingly mature, self-aware. "I know that."

"Do you really?" Betsy continued toward Luke's yacht, feeling steadier on her feet now. "I suppose having your father out of Goose Harbor will make it easier for you to continue your work on your documentary. He won't hinder your access to the Wests." She paused, realized the air didn't feel as cold anymore as she looked at this young man she'd known since he was a baby. "That's why you're seeing Christina, isn't it? Because she's Olivia's niece?"

"No, of course not."

"She's a good girl, Kyle. She's got simple desires. Don't use her to fulfill your own ambitions. Think about her and what she wants."

"I am. Don't worry, Betsy." He flashed her a smile, handsome and rakish even with his split lip and black eye. "You're a good soul, aren't you? Worrying I'm the rich bastard who's swept the naive small-town girl off her feet."

Betsy couldn't help herself and smiled at him. "You're awfully full of yourself, Kyle Castellane, and you always have been. You used to stand out on the dock and pee in the harbor when your mum was trying to potty-train you. We all should have known then."

He grinned at her. "That's where I have to give my old man credit. He didn't beat me for anything, not even peeing in the harbor."

Everyone in Goose Harbor knew Luke'd had terrible parents, and yet he acted as if he'd had a loving and privileged childhood, pretended the abuse he'd endured wasn't just his private hell but something that had never happened at all.

However good his intentions, Betsy doubted Kyle's relationship with Christina would last after he finished his documentary. She was part of that obsession now. In time he'd move on to a new one and forget what it was that had attracted him to her in the first place. It wasn't that he wasn't sincere-Betsy didn't doubt he loved Christina. But after his documentary, he'd move on to a new obsession, a new love, as impossible as that would seem to him now if she mentioned it.

He didn't join her on his father's boat but retreated back toward the café and his apartment.

Luke was out on the afterdeck, a surprise given the damp weather. "Mind if I come aboard?" Betsy asked softly.

"You still have to get your things."

She pushed back the hurt and joined him. He got up suddenly. "Come with me."

He took her below to the smallest of the staterooms, where he had his gun cabinet. He unlocked it silently, punching in the code to the alarm. He'd shown Betsy his modest but very expensive firearms collection once before, but she didn't care anything about guns. Luke could have guns or not have guns. It didn't matter to her. She'd never owned one, had never touched one. Since he was so meticulous about everything else, she assumed he had the proper permits. She'd never known him to shoot any of his weapons, on a firing range or in self-defense.

"The police haven't released any information they have-or don't have-on the weapon that killed Patrick West." He spoke calmly, swinging the glass-and-wood door open. "I don't know what ballistics evidence they have. The bullet could have hit bone and shattered, or it could have been dug out of him relatively intact, in which case it could tell them a great deal."

Betsy could feel her pulse throbbing in her temple. "The police would want to keep that kind of information under close wraps, wouldn't they? They wouldn't want the killer to know what they had on him. That's the way it's done, isn't it?"

Luke nodded. "To be honest, I don't know that much about ballistics or investigative procedures." He spoke calmly, clinically, but she had no idea why he was telling her these things, why he'd taken her down here. "I assume if they can get hold of the actual murder weapon, they can match it to the bullet. If they have one, of course. Short of that-well, I don't know."

"Luke. What's going on?"

He gestured at his collection. "I own two hunting rifles and six handguns, including two antiques. I sold a handgun to Teddy Shelton last September, not one of my six."

"That's legal, isn't it?"

"In this case, no. Teddy's a convicted felon. I didn't know at the time. Stick Monroe mentioned it. He doesn't know about the sale. There were other prob-lems-paperwork-"

"Is Teddy-" Betsy's lips were so dry. "Is Teddy blackmailing you?"

"No. He's a true gun nut, the kind who gives responsible gun owners-well, I don't know if I can say I'm responsible anymore. Look at what I've done. But Teddy's only interested in the weapons themselves." Luke sighed, his color off. "That's not why I brought you here. Count the handguns, Betsy."

"Luke-"

His eyes leveled on her. "Count them. Please. I want you to understand."

She did as he asked. "Five, Luke." She could hear her own breathlessness. "There are only five handguns here. You said you had six."

"I'm a health nut. I exercise and watch what I eat. I'm a control freak in a thousand different ways. I know that about myself." His tone was quiet and intense, but still unruffled, as if he were discussing a weather report. "What I am not is paranoid about other people, especially my friends and family. I don't know why-I probably should be, given my upbringing. But I have faith in them. I believe in them."

He'd never once, in their months together, referred to his childhood negatively, or to other people so positively. Betsy found she couldn't speak. Who was this man? She knew now she didn't have a clue.